


Muse-ic

by MadiofAsgard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Dean, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadiofAsgard/pseuds/MadiofAsgard





	Muse-ic

The man was desperate. Dean Winchester took his time in painting the canvas, a silhouette that had been made using a dotting technique. 

Dean hadn’t slept in three days. 

The thirty four year old had been working endlessly on this painting that he had a dream of, and he couldn’t focus on anything but that. He had slept in front of the canvas twice, but only for five minutes at a time, since the image only popped into his head and woke him up in a cold and unforgiving sweat. 

“Fuck!” He shouted, launching the cause of his insomnia and insanity across the room and toward open oil paints, thus ruining the beautiful piece. It wasn’t right, just like the other three he had tried. 

The man was desperate, but he knew he needed a break.

So, Dean walked to his usual cafè, the one that had always, gotten the right combination of chocolate, cream, and coffee, and sat at his single seater in the corner, facing the window. 

The man was desperate. He needed a break. He needed to focus on something else. 

As Dean sat there people watching, he found himself actually enjoying himself. There were couples, children that were unsupervised that played in a nearby fountain, and dogs on leashes that he had to admit were pretty darn cute. 

Then, there was an angel. 

Or rather, the closest thing to an angel Dean had ever seen. He sat forward in his seat, eyes transfixed on the gentleman with hair that was way too sexual to be allowed on a public street with children and dogs present. The gorgeous stranger had a five o’clock shadow that accented his face in an Adonis-esque manner, a jawline that was sharper than Dean’s own wit, and lips- oh, those lips. Dean could write a sonnet on how those lips made him tick with interest on how they’d feel against his own chapped ones. 

Then there were those eyes. 

Those eyes that appeared to have the blue stolen right out of the sky in southern Kansas, over a wheat field in the summer. Those eyes radiated a piercing intensity, but also a tiredness. What was the story behind those beautiful eyes? What was the story behind the man with those eyes that were currently staring- 

Fuck. 

Dean was staring. 

Like a freak. 

Quickly having a renewed interest at his coffee, he noticed the light brown color, and the hint of cream that still settled on the top, and exactly fifteen flecks of cocoa powder on the side opposite the handle. Dean was more than embarrassed, and just knew his cheeks were the color of roses, like the ones his mother grew back home. 

Was that guy still out there? 

Dean secretly hoped that when he glanced up, the stranger in a messy suit would be there, still staring a hole in the window. 

But he had no such luck. The man was gone. 

Fuck. 

“Why were you staring?”


End file.
